


A Visit In The Garden

by pastelNothing



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Cemetery, God And Follower Sex, Impregnation, Other, Oviposition, Pregnancy Kink, Ritual Sex, Unusual Genitals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelNothing/pseuds/pastelNothing
Summary: Cadeucus Clay has a visitor in his Garden, a gift beyond words.





	A Visit In The Garden

**Author's Note:**

> God hello hi thanks for visiting! This was a labor of love and I want to thank a special fae for being the beta!!!
> 
> This was a labor (snrk) of love and I had a lot of fun watching it.

Morning broke softly in the forest.  Clay woke to find that the humidity within the cathedral had lifted, for once. No storm hung in the sky above the purple and gray canopy of the Savalier Wood. The hazy sunlight that filtered through the clouds and holes in his roof gave the place a magical air, like the pocket of his garden was closer to the homeland Melora blessed for him than usual. The firbolg meditated on the feelings while he began the routine of making his morning tea, thinking about whose graves he would take leaves from as he filled his kettle with water.  He stoked the softly glowing embers under the pot, fed it with more fuel. Waiting for it to boil always helped him concentrate, and when he opened his eyes everything felt heavy and more real than it had a moment ago.

 

He wasn't alone. Something in his gut told him so. He took a slow breath in, then out, Caduceus clutched his staff a little closer to himself and braved the outside to pick his breakfast.

 

The sun cut through the trees and bathed everything in rich shades.  Cardinals and doves sang their morning songs, greeting him and flitting from branch to branch. He strolled lazily along each grave, picking petals and leaves as he went, even partaking in a few salmonberries. He tucked the rest of his morning blend into a small satchel at his hip. As he rounded some of his oldest tea bushels, he finally caught sight of his visitor. They were tall, nearly as thin as he was, with soft features and pallid skin. When they turn their face, their vibrant green eyes lingered on Clay and took in his frame. 

 

“...Would you like some tea?” He asked politely.

 

They stood far taller than the firbolg at their full height, nearly brushing the top of a spruce that Clay had been gathering tips from for decades-  _ at least, I think it’s been decades _ , he mused.  But he was far more taken with his awfully pretty new guest, and in respect he bows low. Several eyes blink at him and the figure returns the gesture. 

 

“I’ve probably got enough tea for both of us,” he said, turning back to lead his guest to the cathedral. It was a slower walk than usual, as it seemed his guest couldn’t walk so quick, but he didn’t mind. More time to check in on the mushrooms he’d put there last season, which were growing perfectly under Claudia’s tombstone. The inky dribbling fungi almost leaned into his touch as he picked a few mature caps, leaving a few sprinklings of dirt from across the way in return.

 

Back in front of the cathedral they settle down together, the being across the small table from Clay as he prepared the tea. 

 

“I’m unsure of what you eat, but I figured tea would be a good enough offering,” he hummed softly.   He sprinkled the herbs and flowers into a cup for them, then doused the handful in the now-steaming water. The neutral set of the being’s mouth shifted to a smile as they leaned in to watch their water turn colors. Clay licked blackberry juice from the pads of his paws as he observed them. Long, dexterous fingers take up the mug.  One moment they were tall and willow-switch thin with several eyes, and then he blinked, and they appeared as a female firbolg, covered in snow white fur speckled with moss and leaves, and piercing emerald eyes. His smile widened, leaning back on one hand with the mug of tea in the other. 

 

“You look real nice like this too.” 

 

They smiled, fine as spider silk as they sipped the tea. The birds continued their songs and for a moment Caduceus felt the forest breathe a little easier. His head tilted some as he took in their form, much like a firbolg, but not quite. Thinner face, wider eyes and longer limbs. Similar, but not the same. They kept him entranced for a moment as he wondered who exactly they might be.  Their tail flicked as a droplet of rain splatters on their nose. 

 

“I didn’t foresee rain today,” Clay murmured,  easily collecting his small tea set in one large hand and putting out the fire with the other.  Once he brought everything into the monastery and looked behind him, his guest was still sitting there in the drizzle. It soaked their fur, clinging to their spindly form.  He sighed fondly, walking back out and offering them a hand. “Why don’t you come join me inside, friend.”

 

Their fingers were longer than Clay’s, longer than most firbolgs he’d ever seen. Each digit curled around his hand as he shifted his weight to pull them up.  He helped them up each step and inside, leaving the door partially ajar.

 

Once upon a time, there had been pews and mats for prayer.  They had become worn and broken long before Clay inherited the place, moths having eaten large swaths of the cotton fibers, leaving bare stone and a few places perfect to grow mushrooms once unfamiliar to the area.  Now they created gorgeous little spores with Clay’s encouragement and guidance.

 

When the white firbolg entered, they shook off onto the stone floor, the walls, and Clay. He stepped back and chuckled.

 

“I’ve got a nice blanket here so you don’t get a cold. I’ve got a little fireplace inside too, so we can dry ourselves off.” He led them to a small half-eaten cushion and took his favourite blanket from his nest, draping it over their shoulders.  They plopped down to watch as the pink firbolg puttered around, the rain continuing outside the walls. A fire was lit, small and warming as Clay sunk into his own cushion before them and once again lifted his teacup to his lips. His guest mimicked the slow sip he took, their eyes trained on him with surprising intensity. Their gaze prickled over his body.  A voice filled his head without warning, and though his guest’s lips did not move, he knew it was theirs.

 

_ ‘You are just who I was looking for, Caduceus Clay.’  _  Their voice sounded like a babbling brook in early spring, filled with snowmelt and the promise of a full year of growth and licks of soft warmth that still spoke in the winter.  _ 'A caring, kind soul. I have been watching you.'  _

 

Clay watched them rise from the cushion and approach him, blanket falling from their frame.  The fire dimmed, then hissed out, choked out into curling vines and soft leaves. He watched unmoving as the pale firbolg sat before him. 

 

_ 'I come with a request _ ,’ they continued, quiet, soft like a new sapling.  He could see for the first time the way the fur was molting over their back as they bowed before him, dappled greying skin withered and wrinkled. Rising from the bow they looked farther and farther away from that shimmering visage, now tired and old.  _ 'I must pass on soon, and become one with my earth. I have come to you, my kind cleric, to help me foster the next generation.' _

 

He felt himself drawn to obey, natural and right, as he shifted to bring his knees together and bow before them.

 

"I would do anything for you, Wildmother." 

 

Soft laughter like gentle chimes on wind.  Those pale, soft, warm hands cupped his face, gently directing him to look up.  Now their face was closer to an aging elven woman, her once beautiful ginger hair gone gray and frail. Seeing his patron in such a state hurt his heart.  Clay leaned into the touch, sighing sadly. The Wildmother cooed, fingers running through his hair with a gentle hum. 

 

_ ‘My bulbs need to mature in a strong body and I am too frail to carry them. If you accept my offering, you, dear Caduceus, would bring about a second spring.’ _ Looking up again, Melora had shifted from their elfin visage to something more monstrous, spindly vine limbs and long form looming over Clay. He leaned back to take it in. Accepting the gift of a goddess,  _ his  _ goddess, bearing an offering like this… it was more than he could ever have dared to hope for. He took a deep, slow breath and let it out.  He met one of the pairs of eyes and nodded, slow and deliberate. The goddess crooned with delight. 

 

‘ _ Wonderful.  We shall begin at once.’ _

 

Melora gently pulled him to his feet, guiding him outside into the rainy morning and past several of the burial mounds and tea bushes.  They laid Clay out over a mound of soft, loamy soil, his back compressing the dirt. He felt himself sigh as the goddess’s mouth touched his. Not his first kiss, but a gentle sweet motion in itself. He opened his mouth to service his goddess, theirs to use as they saw fit. Elation rose in his chest when they began to purr, rumbling deep and pleased within their chest as their long fingers parted his sleeping robe. 

 

Revealed to the rain he shivered as droplets began to coat his fur and dampen him.  Melora dipped their head forward to kiss at his chest and stroke along his sides. Their touches were soft as lush ferns and summer wind, creeping along his belly as their mouth graced his hips, warm over his smallclothes. 

 

‘ _ Will you allow me access to the whole of your body? To let me have all of you? _ ’ Their fingers curled over his hips, tugging at his underthings. Clay raised up to let the goddess pull his clothes away, chuckling at the gentle urgency conveyed with their soft warm paws and talons. He looked down to them as they pressed their maw to his bare hip and inhaled his scent, and there was a spark of some primal, intense arousal. 

 

“You may have me in every way you desire.” he breathed. “You always have.”

 

A stripe of a long tongue, wet and almost mossy, shocked him into laughter in spite of the scene before him. The noise became muffled as Melora’s face pressed lower, against his tender sheath. It passed over him once, twice. Clay felt wetness gather at his entrance, opening easily for the soft, blossoming presence of Melora all around him. Their mouth sealed over his cock as padded fingers probed and explored his pliant walls.  Clay couldn’t help but let out a bubbling little sigh. It was an odd, sweet feeling that washed over him, unexpected as the first sunshower of the season. The rain was warm and soaking into his fur but he didn’t mind, slow heat settling lower in his belly. He moaned as they sucked down around him. His fingers dug hard into the damp earth and he knew it’d take a good soak before all the dirt would come out of his fur. “ _ Or maybe I could try growing some moss on my back again,”  _ he thought idly. 

 

The goddess’s touch grew heavier, more insistent, giving him something to cling to as the pleasure started to sink deeper into his being. He moaned low and long, surprising himself as his dirty paw slid up his chest and smeared mud on his own body. Melora rocked with his hips, laving kisses and affection as they made their way from his cock down lower, to delve their tongue into the hot, pulsing core of him, and as it curled inside him his back arched up and off the mound. Their boundless love poured into him, their adoration of his body, through their paws that carded through his damp fur, to the sun breaking through the clouds to warm him.  Early morning melted into midmorning, and midmorning melted into almost-afternoon. When Clay came, he didn’t realize it until he was already gushing into Melora’s maw and down their wrist, toes curling uselessly as he fucked up into their hand. 

 

Melora pulled away from him, maw dripping with his wetness and satisfaction. Leaning down once more, they licked up his cum with a long and curling tongue.  He was so blessed to serve them, offering a dazed, submissive smile as they shifted and moved. Paws of a tiger pushed his thighs apart and he shifted higher, let his knees hook around their thighs as their bud lay against his crotch and over his hip. He couldn’t help but touch, ever an explorer of beautiful flora and fauna. Clay let his dirty paw wander over the budding flower, and he was rewarded a deep purr that resonated in his chest and lifts his heart higher, shuddering again, and his fingers pushed and stroked and urged his god to bloom. The sight is wondrous, their petals a spiral that curled away to reveal such a length that Clay could only whimper softly and gush wetly, only think of the forests the Wildmother had spawned, created and loved. Like they loved him, like they showed him in the deep, intense kisses to his mouth.  He couldn’t help but submit to his goddess. He tasted himself on their tongue, harmonizing with Melora’s earthen notes and the salt of their bodies, and he stroked the bloom as it ground against his sheath. 

 

Rocking together was something Clay learned to enjoy very much, lashes fluttering as the length pressed against him, splaying him wide and wrecked in a way no paw or cock ever had.  Clay began to pant, the overstimulation ebbing into a bone-deep, aching desire as he licked at their mouth, asking plainly for affection. Their tongues twined with his own, stroking over his hard palate and sending shockwaves directly to his crotch, tracing over his teeth and drawing nonsense shapes in the softness of his cheek, claiming him with no fight or question. He felt his breath stolen away. Melora doted on him shamelessly, affection pouring from their every motion as they ground into him, his wetness smearing over their length with each pass. He wondered how he could possibly take such a length inside him when long, lithe fingers began pressing in as the trembling in his thighs subsided, gentle questions posed in touches that he answered by pushing into the two fingers entering him. They weren’t thick, but curling, like the tongue of the goddess,  pressing into the plush walls. He gushed helplessly over the paw and wrist, and into the lush soil below him.

 

Clay became unfocused as the pleasure wrapped around him, eyes opening to see more green and less of the purple canopy he’d grown to call home- Melora’s influence, he supposed, purifying the cursed soil, causing the trees to grow taller, already long grasses tickling his back paws. He pushed up against them, trying for more friction than the two fingers opening him up, thrusting inside, too slowly for the burning desire the Wildmother had been fanning all day. When the firbolg began to beg it was in Sylvan, gentle panting and soft guttural vowels as he broke his mouth from Melora’s soft lips and sweet taste. 

 

_ “ _ _ Defnyddiwch fi, fy duwies, rydw i'n chi i wneud yr hyn y byddwch chi.” _ He felt them grow harder with every word, and the length twitched needily against his hip.  His grin curled wider, and he gasped as a third finger entered him without warning. The stretch was tinged with pain that he expressed with a whimper.  His concern was gently kissed away and the fingers eased for a moment, to wait until Clay was ready. He showed his gratitude by way of returned affection, worship at the shrine of them. He ached in an overripe, heavy way- so sweet it made his jaw hurt and his teeth tingle, but oh, how he wanted more. He wanted so much of Melora, so much to give his goddess in return. They began moving again when the cleric started to shift closer to their hand.  When they got going again, the words came spilling unbidden from Clay’s mouth. 

 

His affirmations were of their beauty, their power, their hold over the greenery of the lands. Their lush orchards, their abundant meadows, the eternal spring that nipped at their heels like a loyal hunting dog.  Melora responded so warmly to his tribute, his kindness and selfless love with their ministrations; fingers that curled and pressed into his softened walls, needy noises from Clay’s mouth smothered between kisses and licks and sounds of pleasure that broke the sentences into such fractures that not even the old languages would have understood. Only when they’d eased all three fingers inside him to the knuckle, their soft palm flat against Clay’s cock, did he wail in pleasure. His second orgasm washed over him in a tide of praise and holy ecstasy for his goddess. He fell apart and let his carnal need take him, finally touching Melora, wrapping both wide paws around their wrist, holding their hand there as they stroked him through each wave.  Eventually the tide of pleasure receded, into an oversensitivity he couldn’t abide. When he finally pushed their hand away they went easily, their voice low and rumbling when they spoke.

 

_ ‘You are ready, my sweet Caduceus, for my gifts. Do you so receive them, cleric of the grave? From my death they will be born, and they will bring countless gifts unto the land…. Do you receive me?’ _

 

His vision refocused, allowing the him to look into one of the sets of glittering green eyes. He pushed himself further on to the mound, eyes flickering between the length of the goddess, now more engorged, leaking a viscous ambrosia that made his mouth water. Clay nodded, glancing back to their face.  The evershifting smile there mirrored his own for a moment. Of course they held his own features somewhere in their changing appearance; he came from Melora, like the forests and the tide and the plants and the trees. He was hers, in every sense of the word.

 

_ “ _ _ Rwy'n eich derbyn, yn gwbl a chywir. Rwy'n eich derbyn chi, mam y Melora gwyllt.” _

 

The movements stopped as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and Clay felt fear strike him, that he had said something wrong. He reached out to feel the soft body still above him. They gently pulled his hands away, pressing them down into the loose soil above his head. Something tangled between his wrists and anchored him to the earth, solid as chains, and he looked up to see verdant vines holding him secure to the mound. As they wove similarly around his ankles, Clay was unable to keep from biting his lip, tail flicking. It was an honor, he reminded himself, as Melora angled themself at his entrance. They let him breathe a moment, the newly-sprouted bed of vines gently massaging and rubbing tension from his back, coiling over his thighs to spread him just a bit wider as finally, slowly, the goddess entered him. 

 

Time had no meaning as the length stretched him. It was thicker than fingers but so soft, pliant, his walls molding to their shape. Clay felt his body ache more than he could ever remember as they pushed inside him, digging his paws into the vines and the dirt. They waited each time the firbolg tensed beyond regular pulses of his walls around their length, humming and doting on him with sweet kisses over his face and neck. The love he was given made his heart soar for his goddess. He would do everything in his power for them, to be what he was chosen to be, to prove them right in their decision. Pleasure fogged his thinking and all the cleric could do was relax his body further into the gentle rocking as Melora moved. It was more intense the deeper they pushed, working into him, and his belly-panting started again simply from how full he felt. Every nerve was alight, firing pleasure and fullness and love; Melora loved him, loved his worship, his being, his body. They chose him for this honor above all of those who took the Wildmother’s true name into their hearts.  He couldn’t help but feel giddy about it.

 

Clay could feel Melora moving faster as the vines tightened around him. A few more emerged from the mound of dirt and tease at his chest, curling over his areolas and sliding between his sensitive, puffy nipples, stiff and almost sore as the two became one. Melora had rutted with a measure of restraint up until that point, length buried as deep as he thought it could go, but then with a raw, rough thrust, the fullness became too much for a moment. Clay hissed in pain. Melora’s hips went still, their hands cupping his face and cuddling into him as best they could.

 

_ 'You are doing so well, my Caduceus, you are so very good for me. Your goddess is proud of you, my child, precious one _ .' They crooned. Clay’s heart skipped a beat.

 

He felt how stretched he was, how Melora made him full, sealing an emptiness he could usually fill with meditation and prayer (though something told him he would never feel full again, after today, and he tried his best not to think about it). Breathing deeply, he tightened around them, gasping again at the pure sensation. So stretched around their stem, pushing and caressing so deep inside him, stuffing him so full. As they rested together, the goddess’s long fingers cupped his cheeks, turning him for a long, deep kiss with tongue and soft moans muffled between their bodies. The cloying smell of grave dirt and mulch made it harder to breathe, just what he needed to submit to them fully. It's then that he noticed the shifting, the girth of the goddess changing inside him. With what movement he could, considering the vines, Clay tilted his head up to look between their connected bodies. At the base of their length where the spiral petals sprouted from, Clay could see swelling that hadn’t been there before, his eyes widening slightly. Melora rubbed the pad of their thumb over his cheekbone, and their eyes met his. 

 

_ 'It is time you received my blessings.' _

 

All at once everything changed - Clay had lost the pass of time with how long they had been going at it to notice the sun’s passage as it peaks in the sky. Noon bore down on the two in the graveyard, and the firbolg groaned deep in his chest as something passed down from Melora and into his body. The realization is what led to the cleric’s third orgasm, quivering and tightening behind the gift of the goddess. He tried consciously to slow his breathing as the pleasure made him tremble, exhaustion weighing his limbs, and feeling so heavy the presence of Melora was what kept him going. The bulb settled low in his belly, just behind and slightly above the aching center of his pleasure, and then the second, a third, a fourth. He lost count around then of just how many dense pearls were sown deep inside him. When it finally slowed, he gazed blearily down to examine his swollen belly, whimpering softly. Melora hadn't stopped moving, however, pressing kisses and nuzzles and encouragements as a second sensation swept through him. Thick, warm liquid poured into him endlessly, and Clay wept softly, overwhelmed, afraid for a moment he might die of such love. 

 

The goddess' orgasm lasted for several minutes, as best as the firbolg could tell, filling and pouring that thick nectar Clay had seen at the beginning of their coupling into the warm cavity of him.  When he whined up to them, Melora kissed him deeply, silencing any noises the firbolg made as the sensation of being filled overwhelmed him. He cried into their mouth, their hands over his taut stomach, and carefully, the vines unfurled and shrivelled from his body into the mound of dirt.   
  
It took many long breaths, shivering and shaking into the body he curled against. He registered long clawed fingers combing through his hair, dressing his pink curls with freshly grown poppies and violets and lavender.  After several minutes, the petting subsided. He could finally see clearly and what he saw was the goddess, grey and fine and frail. They gave a piteous whine. His heart tore in two, for what had to come next. 

 

“Would you like to be buried here? I can make sure you help all of the teas here, and grow many wonderful things….” He offered, the taste of salt rich in his throat.  His eyes spilt over, unbidden, heavy with sorrow.

 

In return he got a wuffle, weak vocalizations not formed fully into words. Clay reached out to cup their face, soft and long, cooling under his palms. They spoke no more, far too weak to do so. Carefully, carefully, he performed a gentle rite he remembered many other worshippers of Melora performing for their dead. Clay was painfully cautious and deliberate, gently kissing their brow and piling the unpacked earth around them as their breathing slowed to a death rattle, terrified that if he moved to quickly or prayed too loud, they would crumble to dust in his palms. He sung the rite, echoing it again and again in Sylvan.

 

_ “Gallai fod y cylch yn agored ond yn ddi-dor _ __  
_ May heddwch y Duwies ym mhob calon erioed _ __  
_ Llawen yn cwrdd, ac yn hapus, _ _  
_ __ Ac yn falch cwrdd eto.”

 

Clay repeated the prayer over and over until it lost meaning, until they stopped breathing, curled into themself on their side like a child hiding from a bad dream. After he was sure it was over, he pushed himself up on shaky arms, sweat on his brow and tears streaming freely down his face, and when he looked to the edge of the woods, hundreds of animals lined the perimeter of his little home. He felt their eyes, not on him, but on Melora below. They seemed so much smaller than before, standing at the edge of the graves at the break of dawn. Groaning and standing, he took in the scene, blearily wondering how it might look in a painting. With much difficulty and many breaks, trying to breathe around the new little lives nestled in his belly, the firbolg buried the Wildmother, making sure not a spot could be reached without digging down at least a foot. By the time he finished his task, the sun had long since gone past noon and more towards setting. He had one last rite to perform.

 

He pushed his hand into the soil up to his elbow, until he felt the soft, cold pelt of the goddess under his hand, frail and cold and already decaying.  A fresh wave of tears welled up in him- he closed his eyes and focused. A pulse of pure silvery energy enveloped him, the animals still gathered like a mourning party, and the forest. Greenery sprouted fine and full, and he steps back, holding his full belly and watching as where Melora was buried a tiny, woven tree was born, sprouting up as though it had always been. No flowers, but soft iridescent silver-green leaves unfurled on each tiny branch. 

 

_ ‘That’s enough for one day,’  _ he thought, the exhaustion and implications of what he’d done suddenly striking him.  He would wait for a few days to take leaves from that tree.   
  
He trudged back to the cathedral like a defeated soldier, leaning heavily on his staff. He left behind his robe and a trail of honey-drips from between his thighs, and didn’t bother cleaning them up.  Inside, he noticed Melora’s cup of tea, sitting cold in front of the cushion he had sat them down upon that morning.    
  
He didn’t want to think anymore. He curled up in the nest he had for himself, pressing his favourite soft blanket to his face from where it laid on the floor, and stroked absently over his stomach until he fell asleep.   
  
The flowers in his hair wilted, one by one.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, look out for the other parts. Eventually.


End file.
